


Sex and Violence

by Emospritelet



Series: Drinking To Forget [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fingerfucking, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Smut, Woven Lace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 08:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: Detective Weaver goes to Roni's bar for a drink, and finds himself with an unexpected companion for the evening.  This series of fics won Best Series and Best Detective Weaver in The Espenson Awards 2018





	Sex and Violence

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I wrote a Woven Lace thing! Enjoy the smut!

It was a sad fact that no matter the time of year, Seattle’s weather could turn on you at any moment.  Hyperion Heights may have been what the realtors liked to call ‘up-and-coming’, which usually meant overpriced and primed for gentrification, but when the heavens opened its streets were empty and miserable.  Detective Weaver turned up the collar of his jacket against yet another sudden downpour, swearing under his breath as he ducked under the scant protection of a metal fire escape and turned out of the alley onto the main street.  The streetlights shone dimly through the driving rain, gleaming on the wet roads and sparkling in the shower of droplets as they danced like silver sparks in the growing puddles.

He was already soaked when he pushed open the door to Roni’s bar, letting out a breath in relief at the sudden warmth as the door swung closed behind him.  Music was coming from the speakers, an old blues track with a slow, sad beat and mournful guitar.  The lights were low, creating pockets of darkness in the corners where couples nuzzled and fondled, desperate to cling to each other to take away whatever cold hopelessness they had come to the bar to forget.  A few patrons eyed him suspiciously, some melting back into the shadows or slinking away out of his line of sight.  They knew his reputation in here.

He walked to the bar, curling his lip at the feel of his jeans, soaked through and sticking to his legs, and Roni herself greeted him with a cautious smile, hands poised on the clean, shining wood, the lights behind her highlighting her hair and the smooth curves of her cheeks.  She was a beautiful woman, with dark eyes and full lips and a sardonic twist to her mouth that she thought she could hide.  Anyone who thought that beauty meant softness would be disappointed, though.  She was an astute businesswoman, harsh with those who were rude to her staff, and kind to those that deserved it.  A true pillar of the community, he supposed.  Whatever that meant.

“Detective,” she said.  “I hope there’s no one in here that’s caught your unwelcome attention.”

“Just here for the whisky, Roni.”

“Well, that I can do,” she said, looking relieved.

“You sound as though you don’t enjoy my visits,” he said, leaning on the bar and lacing his fingers together.

“Your visits tend to cost me money,” she said dryly.  “Try not to break either glasses or heads this time, okay?”

Weaver showed his teeth.

“Well, in my defence, the other party usually starts it.”

“Uh-huh.”

She set a glass before him, gave him a wry look, and went to serve another customer before he could thank her.  He picked up his glass, turning away, and barged into someone, his whisky sloshing out of the glass and covering them in fragrant amber liquid.

“What the _fuck_?”

A young woman, barely more than a girl, had staggered back on spiked black heels, slender, shapely legs bare to the hem of her black leather miniskirt, a black coat dangling from one hand.  There was something oddly familiar about her, causing a lurch in the depths of his belly and a tickle in the back of his mind, as though his subconscious was faintly screaming something at him.  The shock of it almost stole his breath, but in a moment it was gone, and he told himself that he would definitely have remembered meeting her.  Whisky shone on the pale skin of her chest and stained the royal blue shirt she was wearing, the buttons opened far enough to show the lace cups of her black bra.  Her hair was chestnut-brown, tied up on her head in a messy bun, tendrils curling around the nape of her neck and the small curves of her ears.  Her lips were full and perfect, glistening faintly, and for a brief, unexpected moment he wondered how she would taste if he kissed her.  The shirt brought out the colour of her eyes, which were currently glaring at him.

“Watch where you’re bloody well going!” she snapped.  “I just put this shirt on!”

“Really?”  He ran his eyes over her insolently.  “Seems to me you may as well not have bothered.”

“Oh, so clumsy _and_ a wanker, then,” she said, folding her arms.  “Guess it’s my lucky night.”

She sounded Australian, and he wondered what had brought her here.  Regardless of the accent, he had seen girls like her before as he walked the backstreets of Seattle.  Eyes as blue as topaz, and every bit as hard.  Eyes that would stab you dead for a wrong word, and soft, sweet lips that would bring you back to life.  Legs up to her neck that he knew would feel just right wrapped around his waist, if he could only get past the iron gates that barred the path to her soul.

“Is there a problem here?” asked Roni, her tone flat, and he turned, holding up his empty glass.

“Give me another, Roni,” he said, and jerked his head at the girl.  “Plus whatever she’s having.”

“Well, I now stink of whisky,” said the girl dryly.  “So I guess I might as well finish the job, right?  Are you drinking the good stuff?”

He couldn’t help grinning.  “Of course.”

“Double of what he’s having, then,” she said, with a sniff.

“Two doubles,” he said to Roni.  “And whatever she wants next.”  He turned back to the girl.  “I’ll buy the drinks until your shirt dries, how about that?”

She eyed him cautiously, and the tip of her tongue darted out to wet those perfect lips.

“Okay, I’ll take back the ‘wanker’ part,” she said, in a dry tone.

“Lucky me.”

He slid onto one of the stools, and after a moment she sat next to him, grabbing a paper napkin and dabbing the whisky from her skin.  It had spread in a dark stain on the blue fabric, and her mouth flattened a little.  Roni set two glasses of whisky in front of them, and Weaver nodded his thanks.

“So,” he said.  “Are you meeting someone here?”

The girl balled the paper napkin in her hands and tossed it over the bar into the trash before turning on her stool a little.

“Looks like I already did, hmm?” she said.  “What’s your name?”

He reached into his jacket, pulling out his badge, and she groaned.

“Seriously, a _cop_?” she complained, but there was a glint in her eye.  “You got any handcuffs there, officer?  Gonna see if I’ve been a bad girl?”

“Detective,” he said, ignoring the obvious innuendo.  “And I’m off duty as of fifteen minutes ago.  What might your name be?”

She pursed her lips, as though she was debating whether to tell him the truth.

“Lacey,” she said eventually.  “Lacey French.”

He sensed that was the truth, at least as far as she was concerned.  It didn’t seem quite right, though.  There was something there, still scratching at the back of his mind.  Something - off.  He took a drink of whisky.

“Well, Lacey French,” he said, his voice a little rougher.  “You don’t sound like a local.”

“I could say the same about you.”

His mouth pulled up at one corner as he took another drink.

“Funny,” he said.  “Feels as though I’ve been here forever.”

Lacey crossed her legs, and he ran his eyes down their length.  Nice legs, with small feet.  Lithe, like a dancer.  Perhaps she was.  Perhaps she earned her money at one of the seedier bars in the city.  There were no strip joints in Hyperion Heights - that Belfry woman had closed anything that even resembled one - but they still had their place in Seattle.

“Do you work?” he asked, and she shot him a look.

“I don’t live on fresh air, of course I work.”  She gulped at her drink.  “I’m in what you might call the restaurant business.  Strictly high-end, silver service stuff, you know.”

“I think you’re lying to me.”

She giggled, her eyes gleaming.

“Yeah, I serve fried chicken at Mr Cluck’s,” she admitted.  “If it’s a good week I also get a shift at that diner two blocks over.”

“That’s hard work,” he said.  “On your feet all day dealing with arseholes.”

“I’m guessing the only difference for you is the paycheck, right?”

“No, I do it all for my firm belief in providing a public service and upholding the rule of law,” he said dryly, and Lacey giggled.

“Once more with _way_ less feeling, you almost had me going.”

He winked, and drained his glass.

“Another?”

“Wouldn’t say no,” she said.  “Which honestly is the story of my life, but…”

She shrugged and knocked back her own, pushing the glass onto the bar to join his as he gestured at Roni.  The glasses were refilled, whisky pouring in a caramel stream and sending up the heady scents of nutmeg, peat and smoke.  Lacey picked up her glass.  Her fingernails were short, painted with dark raisin-coloured lacquer, and she raised her chin a little as she looked him over.

“You live around here?”

“Yes, not far,” he said.  “I have an apartment a few blocks over.  You?”

She gestured out of the door.

“Crappy little place two streets up.”

“Strange that I haven’t seen you before.”

“If you make a habit of throwing drinks over people, I guess that’s a good thing.”

He grinned again, taking a drink and enjoying the smooth fire of the whisky.

“You got family?” she asked then.

“Would I be drinking alone in this place if I had?”

“Maybe,” she said, with a shrug.  “Some people prefer the company of strangers, right?”

“I prefer my own, but I suspect you’re right.”

“Hmm.”  She looked amused.  “So, no family, then.”

Weaver hesitated.

“No,” he said eventually.  “No family.  What about you?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose.

“Nah,” she said.  “I mean, I guess my Dad’s alive, if he’s managed not to drown himself in cheap vodka, but we haven’t spoken since I was about fifteen.”

“And your mother?”

“Dead,” she said, as though it was no big deal.

“Have you been looking after yourself since you were fifteen?”

“Pretty much,” she said.  “No one else was gonna do it.”

“So you live alone, then?”

Lacey took a drink, leaning back in her chair and giving him a twisted smile.

“Are you coming onto me, Detective?”

“Actually I was wondering if I’d need to make sure you get home safely,” he said.  “But you can call it whatever you like.”

“Okay, let’s do this properly,” she said, and made her eyes wide, batting her eyelashes and pouting.  “Rough day?”

Her voice had gone low and smoky, like that of a seductress, and he grinned at her play-acting.

“Rough decade,” he said dryly, reaching for his whisky, and she snorted.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

Weaver looked at her with a thin smile.

“You’re not old enough.”

“I’m twenty-four,” she said defensively.  “That’s at least two crappy decades I remember, thanks.  Can only get better, right?”

“I’m probably not the one to ask.”

Lacey rolled her eyes.

“Wow, if you’re gonna be a miserable drunk, you can’t sit with me,” she said decidedly, and his grin widened.

“It takes a lot more than two whiskies to get me drunk, dear.”

Lacey pursed her lips and clinked her glass against his.

“Challenge accepted.”

“Oh, so you’re buying?” he remarked, and she pulled a face.

“Wish I could, but my bank account would _kill_ me,” she said.  “I’ll just have to - I don’t know - cheer you on, or something.  Moral support in your pursuit of inebriation.”

“I’m touched.”

“You should be.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glass, her eyes flicking open, long lashes sweeping upwards, and for a brief moment he felt a rush of desire.  He glanced away, drinking the last of his whisky and raising a finger to Roni, who was wiping down the far end of the bar.  Lacey had drained her own glass when he turned back to face her, and a slight flush was warming her cheeks.  It only made her more beautiful, and he wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.

“Another?” he asked, and she looked down.

“Well, I guess we had a deal, and my shirt’s still wet,” she said.  “See?”

His eyes dropped to her chest, to where the dark stain spread across her breasts, the black lace of her bra stark against her pale skin.  He wondered what she would look like with the shirt gone, with the bra gone, milk-white and perfect, laid out on his bed.  Her breasts would taste of whisky, and she would be soft as silk to the touch and salty-sweet in his mouth when she came.  For a moment he could taste her on his tongue, the ghost of something like a memory, and when he looked up her eyes were wide and dark as twilight, and he had that feeling again, that certainty that he knew her.  Her lips were parted, pink and glistening, her breathing a little unsteady, and his desire was growing.  It was unfamiliar, almost frightening in its intensity, and he broke eye contact and turned to Roni, pushing their empty glasses across the bar with a nod as she raised an eyebrow.

“This should probably be the last one,” he said, as two more measures were poured, and Lacey pouted.

“Hey, I have at least four more drinks worth of drying left in this shirt!”

“Then I’ll put the money behind the bar,” he said.  “You can take your time.”

“You’re gonna leave me to drink alone?”

“Oh, I’m sure that won’t last,” he said dryly, glancing around.  “Give it an hour, and this place will be full of young men eager to get to know you.”

Lacey snorted.

“No thanks,” she said.  “Most of them can barely read and think that eating take-out and watching _Fight Club_ is a perfect date.”

Weaver smirked.

“Well, that does sound unfortunate.”

“So stay for another,” she suggested.  “Save me from my terrible fate.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, batting her eyelashes again, and he couldn’t help grinning.

“Very well, one more.”

Lacey watched as he took a sip of whisky.  She was trying to rationalise why she wanted to have another drink with him, and could come up with nothing other than that she found him oddly fascinating.  He was probably twice her age, not that that was an issue, and was far from her usual type, being short and thin and - well, and a cop.  There was a darkness to him, though, swirling around him and barely hidden deep in his eyes.  Darkness and danger and raw, unchained passion that made her breath catch and her heart thump whenever his eyes flicked to hers.

She let her gaze trail over him: nondescript leather jacket and jeans (wet) with scuffed boots and the cuffs of a blue shirt poking out of his sleeves (also wet).  He wore no rings; okay, he had already said that he had no family, but it wouldn’t be the first time she had met a guy in this place who thought he could slip his wedding ring in his pocket and she wouldn’t notice the tell-tale dent in his skin.  She didn’t even waste giving the time of day to men that stupid, but she was willing to admit that her usual taste wasn’t stellar.  Perhaps that was why she found him interesting.  He was different.

His hair looked as though he was trying to grow it, light brown with silver streaks at the temples, and his face was angular, high cheekbones catching the light, his nose slightly long.  His fingers were long, too, and she had to bite her lip to hold in a chuckle as her mind helpfully provided her with an inappropriate question to ponder.  He took another drink, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, and she noted how the light caught his new growth of stubble in flecks of silver and gold.  The tip of his tongue slipped out to catch a droplet of whisky on the swell of his lower lip, and she felt a tug in the depths of her abdomen, the first hints of desire.  His fingers were stroking against the edge of the glass, and she wondered how they would feel against her skin.  Whether he would be gentle, or whether he would be rough and frenzied, pinning her against the bed and making her scream in pleasure.  She licked her lips as he looked around.

“Tell me something about yourself, then, Lacey French,” he said, and she shrugged.

“Well, I wanted to be a ballerina when I was three,” she said, in an offhand tone.  “Glad I didn’t.  Doesn’t go well with a diet of booze and fried chicken, am I right?”

His mouth quirked in a smile.

“So what are your ambitions now?”

“Mostly paying rent and eating regularly,” she said.  “Okay, _occasionally_ I fantasise about having full affordable health coverage and living in an apartment that isn’t damp and working a job where I don’t want to kill myself after finishing a shift.  Maybe getting a cat...”

She shrugged and raised her glass, and he shook his head, looking amused.

“Yeah, I know, I should aim for more achievable goals,” she said wisely.  “Been told that all my life, but there’s no point in having little dreams, right?  Gotta go big.”

Weaver chuckled.

“Well, maybe I can help you with one of those things,” he said.  “Have you eaten?”

Lacey pulled a face.

“I couldn’t face another bloody Double Cluck Combo, so no.”

“There’s a Chinese place up the street that’s pretty good,” he said.  “Why don’t I buy you dinner?”

She gave him a flat look.

“Caring for the local waifs and strays now, Detective?” she said dryly.  “That’s very moral of you.”

“All part of the public service,” he said, matching her tone.

“Guys usually only buy me food when they want to sleep with me,” she added.

“What makes you think I don’t?”

He was gazing at her steadily, dark eyes watching her over the rim of his glass, warm and smoky as the whisky itself, and she felt that lurch in her belly again, pulling and tightening.

“Oh, I think you _do_ ,” she said, and she was surprised to find that her voice was shaking a little.  “I just don’t think you’d expect it in return for a portion of Beef Lo Mein.”

He grinned again, his eyes gleaming.

“Well, you have me there,” he admitted.  “But you’ll find I’m more than willing to put out for a portion of Peking Duck.”

Lacey giggled.

“Is the criminal fraternity aware of this?”

“I could have made Captain by now if not for this one, terrible weakness,” he said, sadly shaking his head.  “It makes stake-outs and early morning raids an embarrassment.  Especially in Chinatown.”

She burst out laughing, shifting in her seat, and he winked at her.

“So, how about it?” he asked.  “Dinner?”

Lacey looked him up and down, as insolently as he had gazed at her earlier.

“Okay,” she said.  “But after the next drink.”

* * *

They ended up having two more drinks, and Weaver noted that she became bright-eyed and tactile, gesturing with her hands as she spoke, touching his arm or leg to get his attention or make a point.  He held up her coat for her to pull on after they drained their glasses and he had paid their tab, and Roni gave him what he was sure was a disapproving look as he bid her goodnight.  He didn’t care.

Lacey slipped her arm through his, pressed close to his side as they ducked out.  The rain was still coming down hard, and the sidewalks had puddles that splashed up as they walked.  She scowled up at the sky.

“I hate this fucking city in the wet,” she grumbled, and pointed down an alley.  “My apartment’s down there, next street along, by the way.”

“Close to the restaurant, then,” he said.  “Shall we take a short cut?”

“Sure.”

They ducked into the alley, skirting the torrent of rainwater gushing from a drainpipe, and Lacey shivered.

“Hang on, I’m gonna put my coat over my head,” she said, and slipped her arm from his.

“Detective?”

A rough growl of a voice caught his ear, and Weaver turned, narrowly ducking a thrown punch from a dark-haired man that he vaguely remembered beating the crap out of two weeks earlier.  The man staggered, off balance, and Lacey squeaked as he barged into her.

“Out of the way, slut!”

He shoved her hard, knocking her against the wall, and turned back to Weaver, who was ready for him.  A swift headbutt produced a satisfying crunching noise, and blood splattered his face from the man’s broken nose.  What was his bloody name?  Kevin?  Caleb?  Didn’t fucking matter.  He pinned the man to the wall with his forearm across the throat, pressing hard, and the man struggled, his face darkening as his air was cut off, blood pouring down his face from his ruined nose.

“You just assaulted a young woman and tried to punch a police officer,” rasped Weaver, pushing his face up close and staring into wide, desperate eyes.  “I should really arrest you, read you your rights, put you in cuffs and take your sorry arse down to the station, all of which sounds fucking exhausting, don’t you agree?”

He reached down with his other hand, grabbing the man’s crotch and squeezing his balls hard, and the man let out a high pitched whine, his entire body stiffening.

“So I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen,” said Weaver.  “I’m gonna let go in a moment, and you can lie down in this alley and contemplate the dismal fucking path your life has taken.”

He released the man’s balls and stepped back, letting him slump to the ground with his hands between his legs, a wheezing groan coming from him.  Weaver booted him in the ribs for good measure, hearing a crack and a gasp.

“Try that again and I’ll cut the fuckers off!” he snarled.

Lacey had pushed herself off the wall that the man had shoved her into, and had watched the encounter with wide eyes, her heart thumping in her chest.  Weaver stepped back from the man after delivering his threat, turning to face her.

“You alright?” he asked, anger thickening his accent, and she nodded.

She had been right about the darkness in him, the danger and the rage.  He was staring at her, and her heart was racing, and her cheeks were flushed.  He stepped closer, the rain coursing over his head, flattening his hair.  She licked raindrops from her lips, her skin tingling, and it felt as though a storm was coming, as though electricity was in the air between them, sparks dancing around them.

“You still hungry?” he asked, and his voice was rough, his breathing heavy, and _God_ yes she was hungry!

She reached up, grasping the lapels of his jacket, and he bent his head to kiss her, his mouth wet with the rain.  He shoved her back against the wall, his lips opening her up, tongue pushing into her mouth, and she moaned, lifting her leg, sliding it up the rough, wet denim of his jeans as he pressed against her.  Her tongue stroked his, and she could taste the whisky in his mouth, cool fire, wood and smoke.  His hands slid down her body, over her waist and hips, squeezing her rear, grinding himself against her.  The new growth of his stubble was scraping her chin, their lips slippery with the rainwater and their own saliva, and he pulled his mouth from hers, kissing along her jaw and down her throat, biting hard and making her moan.  His teeth nipped at her earlobe, his breath warm, sending shivers through her.

“Your apartment is near, you say?” he breathed, and she nodded.

“Next street over,” she gasped.  “You’re coming up, right?”

His hand slid over her hip, between her legs, and she moaned as he stroked the edge of her lace panties, his touch making her shudder.  His finger pushed beneath it, sliding against her flesh, and he groaned as he felt her wetness.  Lacey’s head rolled back, her eyes closing as the finger pushed inside her, and she moaned as he began to rub at her with his thumb.  It felt incredible.

“ _Fuck_ , you feel good!” he breathed.  “Hot and wet.  I bet you taste every bit as sweet as you look, don’t you?”

He slipped the finger out of her, dropping down to sit on his heels, and pushed her skirt up, tugging her panties to the side and putting his mouth to her.  Lacey let her head thump back against the wall, moaning as his tongue stroked her, swirling around her clit, and he groaned, his fingers digging into her thigh as he licked at her.  She could feel sensations building inside her, her skin tingling, the strokes of his tongue winding her tight as a coiled spring.  Rain coursed over her cheeks, cold against her flushed skin, and she could feel herself building to climax, his tongue circling and rubbing, his finger sliding inside her again.  She ran her fingers through his wet hair, her breath coming hard in her lungs, and a whimper rose up out of her, becoming a loud cry of pleasure as she came.  Stars burst in her vision, and her fingers twisted in his hair, tugging at it as he licked her, his rumbling groan vibrating through her body.

Weaver sat back on his heels, letting her skirt drop and sliding his hands down her legs before straightening up.  Lacey was flushed and panting, her eyes dark with desire, her lips full and wet with the rain, and he kissed her again, pressing himself against her, knowing she would feel the hard length of him through the jeans.  He pulled back, still tasting her on his tongue, and she licked her lips.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice shaking a little.

The man that had tried to attack him was still lying on the wet ground with his hands between his legs, and Weaver ignored him as he took Lacey’s hand and let her pull him with her along the alleyway.  They were both soaked, and the wind was cold against his legs and face, but his body was warmed by the burning need to kiss her, to be inside her.  She moved quickly, skirting a fire escape and turning onto one of the side streets, and he counted four apartment buildings before she drew to a stop, fishing in her purse for a set of keys.  Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and a tiny smile curved those perfect lips.

“Come inside, Detective.”

Her apartment was on the second floor, a small place with a lounge and kitchen-diner.  The walls were painted lilac, but there were no pictures.  An old TV sat before a couch that had seen better days, a patchwork blanket hiding most of it from view, and Lacey threw her purse onto it and peeled off her coat, tossing it aside.  Her hand reached for his, and she pulled him with her, down a small corridor that held what he presumed was the bathroom, and opening the door to her bedroom.  She had a double bed, made up with cotton sheets and dark blue blankets.  Rain was lashing against the windows, the streetlight outside filling the room with pale light, and she turned to face him, reaching for his jacket and pushing it from his shoulders as his mouth found hers.

His fingers were cold, and it was hard to unbutton the blue shirt she was wearing, but he got it open, tugging it down over her shoulders to fall on the floor behind her.  Black lace cupped her breasts, and she moaned as he squeezed them, his thumbs rubbing over her hardened nipples before sliding up to push the straps from her shoulders.  His tongue stroked against hers, his hands tugging the bra straps down until the cups slid over her breasts, baring them to his sight.  He pulled back, kissing down her neck and over her chest to suck a nipple in between his lips, and Lacey rose up on her toes with a gasp as he sucked at her.  The faint taste of the whisky he had thrown on her was still on her skin, and he ran his tongue across to her other breast to suck on her nipple, his hands reaching behind her to unhook the bra and let it fall.

Her skirt was next, the zipper opening easily, the faux leather sliding down those long legs with a whispery sound, and Lacey stepped out of it, kicking it aside.  She was wearing nothing but her high-heeled shoes and the black lace panties that were already stained with her juices, and he ran his hands over her hips, straightening up to kiss her mouth.  She pushed his jacket from his shoulders, and he shrugged it off, his holster following it, the gun thumping to the floor.  Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt before sliding inside, cold against his naked chest.  He tugged her close, hands squeezing her buttocks, and she made a contented noise as she rubbed herself against him, sending jolts of sensation through his body.  She scrabbled again, opening up the shirt and dragging it down his arms, and he broke the kiss to peel it off.

His boots and jeans proved to be more awkward, and Lacey pulled back from him, kicking off her shoes and climbing onto the bed as he bent to take off the boots.  She had stretched over to her nightstand, rummaging in the drawer for what he presumed would be a condom, and he ran his eyes over her as she did so.  Her skin was the colour of milk, her body slender with long, firm muscles in her limbs.  She tugged pins from her hair, unwinding the knot and combing with her fingers as her hair bounced around her shoulders in messy curls.  She was leaning on her elbows as he stepped out of his jeans, her eyes on his, and he crawled onto the bed after her, pushing her down and covering her with his body as he kissed her again.

Her skin was cool and smooth, her mouth hot and sweet, and he shifted to the side a little so that he could run a hand over her, cupping her breast and squeezing, sliding down to push beneath the waistband of her panties.  Lacey moaned into his mouth as he touched her, her tender skin as soft as silk and slippery with arousal.  He pushed a finger inside her, then another, pressing deep, and she gasped, a wave of heat against his lips.  His tongue teased hers as his fingers thrust into her, and she moaned and writhed, pulling her mouth free, arching her back.  His thumb swept over her clit, and she let out a tiny cry, her head rolling back against the pillows, her lips glistening from their kisses.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful!” he rasped.  “Sweet and so fucking delicious!  Come for me, Lacey.  I want to _feel_ it.  I want to feel you squeezing me, feel your cum running down my fingers.  I want to _taste_ it.”

She was panting and moaning, her cheeks flushed and hot, and he quickened his thrusts, making them harder, faster, his thumb rubbing at her as he worked.  She pushed herself against his hand, increasing the friction, her moans growing louder, her fingers clutching at the blankets.  He could see her muscles tense and stiffen, her tongue briefly wetting her lips, and he bent his head to suck the taut peak of her nipple, running his tongue over it, his lips sharply pulling.  She came with a loud cry, clenching around his fingers, and he groaned against her skin, feeling as though he might burst, his cock painfully hard.  She was still letting out tiny cries, and he slowed his movements, slipping the fingers out of her as she lay there panting, her chest heaving.

His fingers were slippery-wet, coated in her fluids, and he sucked them clean, tasting her pleasure.  She was still trying to catch her breath, and so he kissed down over her belly, moving between her legs to draw the panties down over her hips and off at her feet.  She was waxed, her skin a little darker between her thighs, glistening with her juices, and he ran his palms up her long legs, bending to kiss her, his tongue slipping between her folds to taste her cum.  Lacey moaned, her hands moving to twist in his hair, and he groaned in pleasure as he licked her, knowing she would come again, wanting to feel it spill on his tongue, to drink her down.  She tasted incredible, and her scent was covering him, musky and sweet on his skin and in his damp hair.

“God, that’s amazing!” she breathed.

He grinned to himself, sliding a finger slowly into her and making her moan.  She came quickly, her flesh already swollen and tender from her earlier climax, and he pushed his tongue inside her to catch every bit of her cum, swallowing down the salty-sweet fluid as it spattered on his lips.  She was jerking and moaning, her muscles twitching, and he pulled back, slipping off his underwear and reaching for the condom she had dropped on the bed beside them.  Lacey’s eyes fluttered and opened, and a slow smile spread across her face.

“Wow,” she murmured.  “Yeah, I think it’s _definitely_ your turn.”

He rolled the condom on, and she shifted a little, drawing up her knees and opening her legs to let him lie between them and push up against her.  Sliding inside her felt incredible, and he groaned as he pushed deep, Lacey sighing in contentment as he sank into her.  He began to move, his thrusts long and deep, growing harder and more frenzied, and she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her legs around his back, moaning as he fucked her hard.  Her fingers scraped his scalp, sending shivers through him, and he bent to kiss her, his tongue catching on her teeth, sweeping across her palate.  She lifted her hips, pushing upwards to meet him, and her legs slid free from around him as she broke the kiss.

Lacey put her hands on his shoulders, pushing and rolling until he was on his back and she could straddle him.  His head rolled back with a groan as she sank down onto him, his hands on her hips.  He felt incredible inside her, and although her body was still tingling from her orgasms, she was chasing another.  He seemed to know exactly how to touch her to turn her on, and she thought it was time to return the favour.

When she had gone to the bar that evening she hadn’t expected to end the evening having the best sex of her life with a bloody cop, but she certainly wasn’t about to complain.  Weaver kept himself in good shape, his torso lean and smooth, with just enough softness there to provide some incredible friction between them.  His nipples were hard, dark buds, and she slid her hands up his chest to tweak them, making him jerk and growl in response.  His eyes gleamed at her, and she shivered at the darkness in them, bracing herself on his belly with her hands as she began to move.  

She rocked her hips, letting him slip out almost all the way before slamming back down on him, and his body arched upward, a low groan coming from him.  Her pace quickened, her thrusts growing rapid and shallow, and she could feel him getting close to climax, the muscles of his neck tightening, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips.  Sensations were building in her as she rubbed against him, and she licked her lips, breath panting out from her lungs as she increased the pace again.  She was close, her body starting to tingle again, and she let out a high, moaning cry as she came, slamming down onto him and throwing her head back.

Weaver watched her come, dark curls bouncing, her beautiful mouth parted, her eyes hidden from him, closed in ecstasy.  She was clenching around him, grinding against him, and he came with a long, low groan, thrusting up inside her as his cock pulsed.  He was momentarily blind as his vision was filled with coloured stars, but Lacey kept moving, pulling every drop from him until he was shattered and spent.  He blinked to clear his vision, collapsing back into the pillows and trying to catch his breath, and she let her head drop, her hands on his belly, her chest heaving.

For a moment there was only the sound of their ragged breathing.  He licked his lips, tasting the salt of his own sweat and the last, lingering flavour of her pleasure.  Lacey raised her head, using her forearm to sweep her hair out of her face.  Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and she grinned at him.

“If you hadn’t blown my brains out with the multiple orgasms, Detective, I’d probably be making a really bad police pun right now.”

He chuckled, reaching down between them to grasp the base of the condom.  Lacey pulled up off him, rolling onto her back and throwing her arm up over her eyes.

“That was _awesome_!” she drawled.  “You okay?”

“I think I’ll live,” he said.  “You?”

“Ask me in an hour.”

She ran her hands over her face with a sigh, and turned her head to face him.

“That Chinese place deliver?”

“I should think so.”

“Good.”  She turned onto her side, grinning mischievously.  “So if I order dinner, how do you fancy being dessert?”

**Author's Note:**

> And thus began a friendship based around whisky, takeout and casual but awesome sex


End file.
